Flying
by Chiyume
Summary: "Cas, what are you doing out here man?" He doesn't intend to whisper, but he does, the silence hanging over the playground feeling like it might shatter at anything louder than a gasped out breath. "You've been gone for hours. We've been looking for you."


The dry leaves crunched beneath his feet as he approached the angel, the playground deserted. Children since long gone home to eat dinner and cuddle up in front of the television sets with the rest of their families, safe from the quickly settling dusk that always seemed to come too early during this time of year.

If Castiel could hear him coming then he didn't show any signs of it; shoulders slumping and eyes staring empty at the bare feet partially hidden amongst the leaves covering ground, the swing unmoving.

When was the last time those eyes had looked at him and showed something that wasn't pain?

How long has it been?

The wind was cold, November drawing near with sullen rainclouds drawing together above their heads and he pulled his jacket a bit tighter, feeling a shill run down his spine. Castiel is only wearing a pair of cotton trousers and one of Dean's discarded shirt, feet naked with toes digging into the dirt below as the wind rocks the swing back and forth.

The angel shows no sign of feeling the cold.

Then again, he never shows signs of feeling anything anymore…

"Cas, what are you doing out here man?" He doesn't intend to whisper, but he does, the silence hanging over the playground feeling like it might shatter at anything louder than a gasped out breath.

Castiel doesn't move, doesn't show any recognition to his presence and Dean has to look away, the sight of those vacant eyes tearing at his heart.

"You've been gone for hours. We've been looking for you."

There was still no answer, just the sound of the wind shuffling dead leaves over cold earth. The smell of rain was heavy in the air and he can feel the wind pick up, tugging at the hem of his clothes. It wouldn't be long until they'd both be soaked.

"C'mon, let's head back."

He motioned with his head in the direction of the Impala that was parked by the side of the road, the search for the angel having led him far away from the motel where they were currently staying.

He took a few steps, waiting for the rustle that would indicate that Castiel was getting up to follow him, but it never came.

"I overheard a child talking to her mother today."

Castiel's words rang hollow in the clearing of the playground, and the sound of them made Dean stop dead in his tracks, closing his eyes as if the darkness behind his eyelids could shut out the even darker black he could hear curling in his friend's voice, but it didn't help.

"She was playing on the swing set." The angel continued, low and throaty; cold like the steel sky above them. "She was smiling. Her face looked… bright. Happy…"

Dean swallowed, fighting the lump that threatened to choke up his voice.

"Cas-…"

"She told her mother that she could touch the sky." Castiel interrupted and Dean's jaw shut with a mute snap. "She said it was like flying."

He didn't want to turn around. He didn't want to see the look on the angel's face, but his feet didn't obey him and he shifted slowly, turning to face the creature that had once cradled him inside his very essence and raised him from the fires of Hell itself, knowing that the thing that would meet him was only a broken shell of what used to be.

Castiel was still looking at the ground by his feet, hands clasping around the chains so hard his knuckles whitened, but his shoulders had gone rigid, bracing the body for a weight that wasn't there. Not anymore.

"She said it was like flying… but it's not."

The voice is gravely, but it held none of the rumbling power it once had. It was weak, fragile.

Castiel bowed his head, and as Dean watches, drops of something that he knows is not rain falls to stain the fabric of the angel's trousers and his hands curl to helpless fists inside his pockets.

"It's _nothing_ like flying." Castiel hisses, the words spat out through gritted teeth and when he looks up to the heavy clouds above them Dean sees the tears on his face, sees the anger and indescribable loss kept behind eyes that used to hold more color that the summer sky, now dulled by so much pain it hurt to even look at them. It only lasts for a second and then dark tufts of hair hides the angel's face once more, body sagging and fingers turning slack and feeble around frigid metal.

"It's not like flying at all…" he mumbles and Dean has to turn away, tears of his own burning the corner of his eyes, useless signs of empathy that didn't mean a god damn thing.

The rain eventually hides the wet streaks on the angel's skin, but Dean sees them none the less, and even though Castiel doesn't say anything more on their ride back Dean knows.

He knows.

_It's not like flying at all…_

* * *

_Dedicated to my Wonderful Gishwhes-team who I love beyond words!_


End file.
